FATHER'S DAY

Us Irish may not be the best at expressing emotion, especially when it comes to family. You are more likely to have a moment with a fella in tears in a pub over a missed penalty, than hear him tell his daughter he loves her. But I'm not sure that matters. I'd have that kind of relationship with my Dad. In fact, he doesn't like being called Dad, preferring Daddy. But at 40 years of age, that sounds a little juvenile.

Russell men are a distinct breed, who probably should be subject to scientific analysis. The DNA is fierce strong, fierce. I look at family photographs and can see the characteristics through my Dad's first cousins and their children. Leon is the cut of my Dad as a young lad. Given my boy's impish ways, I'd say that he has inherited my Dad's personality too.

During 'the occasional' argument with my then husband told me 'you are just like your father'. When I was younger, I may have taken this to be an insult, but now I think, 'Aw shucks, you think I am determined, opinionated and with a strong work ethic and a great head of hair. Thanks for noticing, even now, in the middle of a row !'.

The older I get, the more that I appreciate what my father has passed on to me, without even realising. A love of the land, although his is more agricultural, mine gardening. A strong sense of family and home. I was reared in my father's home place, so our house was where family gathered. Aunts, uncles, clatters of cousins, second and third cousins, priests home from abroad. Living a two hours drive from home now, it is rare (but wonderful) if family come to visit. I wouldn't say that I ever get homesick, but I love coming across someone with that distinctive Meath-Cavan-Monaghan-Louth borders accent. Listening to Hector on the radio gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.

I think that 'regret' is a waste of time and I do regret that my father-in-law Des didn't get to meet my children. He died on August 1st,  The day that the twins were born, my mother-in-law, May took Mya's hands and kissed them, saying that she had her grandfathers hands. She often takes Mya's hands now and kisses her stubby little fingers. It's a lovely connection to have. My father-in-law was a radio officer in the British Merchant Navy in the 1940's. He told me lots of stories about that time, but unfortunately, I didn't record what he said. All these years later, my boy is obsessed with the Titanic. He has watched the film (the one with Leonardo ...) endless times. He brings home library books about ships regularly and constantly asks me questions that I can't answer. I wish that Des was around to answer his questions. I could imagine the pride he would have in my wee boy.

I know my Dad is proud of me. I don't remember him telling me that and it's unlikely that he will now. But other people have said things that my Dad told them about me. Sometimes things that I wasn't aware that he knew of. He has been very generous in supporting me in my education and setting myself up in life.

I can see his pride in his eight gorgeous grandchildren, who all love Grandad John's antics. It's lovely seeing your Dad with your children. Enjoying your children in a more relaxed way that you do yourself, being so caught up in the day-to day. It feels like you are giving something back to them.

I had a typical teenage relationship with my Dad. Lots of Hate and very little Love. He told me that I 'caused more trouble than any of the rest of them', although I never did anything too mad. I pretty much left home when I went to college in Galway. I moved home with my tail between my legs, aged 26, after a long-term relationship broke down. I was totally heart broken. I'm not sure what I expected my Dad to say. Maybe 'I told you so'. But all that he said was 'so, there was a fall out in the camp then?' and said no more.

I won't see my Dad today, but I will see him next weekend. The kids will have a card and a pressie for him. There won't be much fuss. I'll print this piece out and give it to him. We probably won't discuss it. But that's fine. Sometimes things don't need to be said.

In My Face

According to Wikepedia, the notion of personal space was introduced in 1966 by anthropologist Edward T. Hall, who created the concept of proxemics. In his book, The Hidden Dimension, he describes the subjective dimensions that surround each person and the physical distances they try to keep from other people, according to subtle cultural rules.  According to him, a person's personal space (and the corresponding physical comfort zone) is highly variable and difficult to measure.  Estimates for an average Westerner, place it at about 60 cm on either side, 70 cm in front and 40 cm.  For me though, personal space is more of a psychological thing that involves being in my face.

I'd say that personal space as a concept came into Ireland around the time that cappuccinos, paninis and spray tan arrived. I don't remember it coming and I don't remember when I first realised that I wanted it. I'd say if I asked my mother, or any women rearing children in the 70's/80's if they craved 'personal space', they would say that they wouldn't have minded an attic conversion, or an extension, but that the much desired double glazed windows got priority. I wonder if women of that generation thought about 'me time', or were they just too goddamn busy minding a clatter of children, on a budget, with little help from the fathers of said offspring ?

I wonder if no one ever mentioned this notion of personal space to me in the first place, would I be aware that I wanted it?  Well, it's there now and I want it.  Funnily enough though, I wasn't aware that I craved that space until my children arrived six and a half years ago.  In the early days, as soon as they feel asleep (at the same time – woo hoo !!), I used that precious time, like the last 5 minutes on Masterchef, when the chefs run around like mad yokes to pull it all together and make everything gorgeous. I was too busy and over exhausted to really think about 'me time'.

Once you visit the labour ward, your dignity goes out the window.  It is a good indicator of what's to come.  There is no point locking the toilet door, because they will hammer it down. No part of your body, or bodily function is without scrutiny. Little people are great at pointing out all of your blemishes, ones that you thought weren't that visible – after all, their eye sight is far better than yours. We have a rule in our house – that nothing that anyone in the house, either little people or grown ups, do in the bathroom is to be discussed at school. I hope, for the most part, that the kids stick to this rule ... Having said that ... I have heard a few tales about what classmates daddies do, so you never know ….

I love taking a shower to literally wash a Bad-Hair-Day away. To wash this feeling away, it is essential to take these showers on your own.  But it always happens that when I could most do with one of these showers, that the kids are either minging dirty, or just really want to have a shower with me. I always feel guilty and give in. It's always a bad idea. They like the water cooler than I do and always have some sort of argument. But worst of all, they take it as an opportunity to have a good old look at my 40 year old body and point out all of it's faults. Leon, ever the curious boy, bent over in the shower recently and had a good look at me, asking 'How exactly do you pee Mammy ?'

Incessant and usually unanswerable questions are a key feature of my world.  My boy has a career in interrogation in the future.  That fella never knows when to stop.  I really wish that I had more of an engineering brain, because I can't keep up.  The sooner he learns to read the better, although I have a feeling that he would still prefer to grill me.  He keeps his best questions for when it's raining, you are on a three lane roundabout and you aren't sure where you are going.  Or when I am trying to pick clothes to wear.  Okay, this doesn't sound like a mammoth task, but I just want a little bit of head space.  I used to enjoy putting together outfits.  Now, it's a matter of what's closest.  

Maybe they are suddenly overcome with love, or they are going through a phase, but lately, my children are invading that precious space, big time.  In the last two months particularly, they are have been stuck to me like glue.  Last weekend, Mya gave me a whopper of a bruise when she hit me on the chin, jumping up on me.  I literally seen stars. 

If we are out for dinner somewhere, they don't want to sit beside me, they want to sit on me. It is really tricky to eat anything with two 6 year olds on your knees. If I do manage to get them to sit beside me, they want to sit so close to me that it is hard to get a fork to my mouth. Food with any kind of sauce is a disaster.  Trying not to get sauce on Mya's hair is a challenge, so best to stick to dry food. Of course, they usually prefer my food to theirs anyway, so I don't eat much anyway. Great for the waistline though.  

When I am painting my nails, the two of them stand so close to me that I can't get the right angle to do it properly, or they get nail varnish in their hair.  Of course, they would prefer to paint my nails for me, but that never ends well.  

Same when I visit friends houses, especially those who don't have small children. The pair of them, stuck to me, making it difficult to get a cuppa to my mouth. Mya, usually a chatterbox, turns into a mouse, who likes to whisper information, which I, in turn, should tell my friend. But she usually whispers so quietly, that I can't hear a word she says. A real conversation killer ! Of course, I could leave them at home, but I'm a sucker when I see two sad faces looking at me if I say I am travelling alone.  They have mastered the puppy dog eyes look.  

That's what happened last weekend. It was my cousin Yevette's 30^th birthday party in Tara, Co Meath. I was really hoping to go by myself and was looking forward to a grown up catch-up with my cousins. I told the kids that they would be bored and that they really should stay at home with their Dad.  He encouraged them to come with me, reminding them that they loved parties (Let's face it - he just fancied a night on his own). In the end, I brought them along. It was a great night, but I spent my time with the pair of them stuck to my leg, pulling and tugging at me, whispering, wanting to go to the toilet, wanting to go home.  In fairness, there was a lot of unfamiliar faces there. I could feel myself getting more and more stressed.  We were the first to leave.  

I phoned the hubby in the car.  I may have been a little emotional. I probably exaggerated how bad the children's behaviour was.  I may have blamed the hubby for making me bring them along.  He said that I made the kids sound like anti Christs.  I said 'YOU weren't there, so YOU don't know how bad it was'.  I was going to remind him how stressed he was earlier that day when he brought the kids shopping with his 92 year old mother. (Lovely and all as my Mammy-in-Law is, she is a nightmare to bring shopping.  Think Mrs Doyle in Father Ted, only in the sweet aisle of a supermarket, with two 6 year olds, with eyes on sticks, as if they never seen a sweet in their lives).  I decided not to remind him about this, as I could see how this could escalate into a Who-Is-The-Most-Stressed-Parent competition.  (For the record, I would have won !!).

Maybe because I'm a working mamma, I tend to give in to the kids and sacrifice that personal space time. But I draw the line when it comes to walking my dog.  Leon regularly tells me what a terrible parent I am because I won't bring him on my early morning rambles.  But the purpose of those rambles is exercise for myself and the mutt and not for Leon to poke at the innards of dead animals stuck to the road.   

Slowly, but surely, I am reclaiming that space.  Writing this blog has helped with that.  So has painting and drawing (although Mya would prefer to help me with that too). I attempted to read the Sunday papers in bed this morning.  I was doing well.  I actually started with the news part, rather than the magazines.  I felt very mature.  Then the kids decided to join me.  First of all, with their library books, which I had to read.  Then, they carried in the paddling pool that their Nana bought them yesterday in the supermarket (see what I mean about Mrs Doyle ??).  I had to abandon the newspapers and inflate the pool, even though it is too cold to paddle today. 

I'll start a new painting later on tonight.  And a shower.  Solo.  With really hot water.  Maybe even get past page 3 of the newspaper.  I'm getting there. 

Baby Yobbish Comes of Age

So, me baby brudder is getting married in the morning. He started out as 'baby Yobbish', was promoted to 'Bobby' when he would still wear shorts (that ended when he was 6) and then became 'Rob'. Of course if he is in big trouble, then 'Robert' still applies. 

Like most younger brothers, he was a pain in the ass. He would always break the things that you made out of Lego, reckoning that his inventions were more important than yours. The same with anything you made out of sand. I usually made houses, with landscaped gardens. He has no hesitation in bulldozing over my mansion with his toy tractor to make a field of sand to plough - 'real work' he reckoned.

In fairness, he was a great fella for dismantling anything mechanical and making something else out of it - Mac Gyver wouldn't have a look in. Fascinated by his entrepreneurship Granny Russell would watch him and say 'God bless his hands'.

Ever the farmer, there was a very memorable event where Rob and his cousin Anthony ran up the fields after my Dad when he was spreading slurry. Dad didn't see them and turned on the spreader. The pair landed at the back door, covered from head to toe in slurry, resembling the monster that appears in Julia Donaldson's 'No Room on the Broom'. Needless to say, they were stripped at the door and scrubbed clean.

Maybe that is where his aversion to water came from. The rest of us spent many happy hours paddling in a shallow river across from our house. Rob didn't like getting wet almost as much as he didn't like wearing shorts. The wee fecker liked throwing stone to splash the paddlers though.

Things didn't get much better when he went to secondary school. We could call these 'The Mullet Years'. Like many a young lad before him, his teenage 'do was not pretty ... I'd better confess that yours truly was his hair stylist. During The Mullet Years, de mammy started wearing aprons with a pocket to hide letters from the school principal from my Dad. That is not to say that my bro was illiterate - far from it. He was quite fond of essay writing. Indeed, he had a particular perchance for including a certain teacher in essays as a tragic heroine who sometimes came to a sad end.

Transport to school was never a problem for Rob. If he missed the school bus, he caught a lift on the Gypsum freight train and hopped off in the field behind the school. It was quite a dramatic entrance, as the railway track was overlooked by some of the classrooms. Is it any wonder de mammy turned grey ?

Her many rosaries/novenas/trips to Knock paid off and the boy did well in his Leaving Cert and began his studies in Tralee to become a (very successful) diesel mechanic. It was there that he met the lovely Denise Galvin . I first met her about 13 years ago in my flat on the North Circular Road, which was a half way house for anyone going to the airport/Heuston/hospital appointments/flat hunters/day out in the big smoke. I'd like to think that Rob brought Denise to meet me to get the seal of approval, but truth be told, there is a train from Heuston to Kerry and she needed to get home for Christmas.

In true mechanic style, he had wooed Denise with a note left with her books in the college library asking 'Ms 123 KY 92' to meet 'Mr 456 MH 93' for a drink in a local bar. Despite a few false starts, they finally got it together.

I reckoned the wee woman was a keeper when she charmed the pants off my Dad. A hardened Meath GAA supporter, JR had every reason to not like anyone from The Kingdom. What sealed it for me though, as to whether this girlfriend was for keeps or not, was the fact that Denise managed to Rob to wear shorts. Air on bare legs, OMG !!! Me Ma spent ten years trying to do that.

Two gorgeous kids later and they are sealing it all with rings tomorrow. I couldn't be more happy for them. Much love lil bro Robert Russell and Denise

I haven't forgiven you for this though, using your sis to flog Russell Fastraxx. And not even a decent photo either !! You are still a pain in the ass

http://www.donedeal.ie/find/all/for-sale/Ireland/robert%20russell


POST SCRIPT
I wrote this on the eve of my brother's wedding on the May Bank Holiday weekend.   In typical Russell fashion, our way of showing affection to each other is slagging, messing and taking the mickey.  We don't do 'I love you' and sentimental stuff like that.  You might get a hug, or a punch in the arm if you are lucky.  

But on the day of my brother Robert's wedding, I could clearly see that he really loves the gal he married.  Proper grown up stuff too.  This photo says it all.  I'm made up for you guys.  Happy ever after, methinks.  Now enough of the emotional stuff.  Back to the slagging.

Wedding Daze Part II

I should have known that marrying a divorcee wouldn't be straight forward. (Doesn't divorcee sound so much better than fecking 'SPINSTER' ???.  Divorcee almost sounds exotic, whereas spinster sounded like I was an old dear on the scrap heap with a grey bun).  Anyway, I digress. Just before Christmas the previous year, my husband-to-be had visited a number of Catholic priests in Kilkenny, so see if they could perform a short blessing on us in the hotel where we were having our wedding reception.

Despite his pleading, none of the priests would entertain this, as Ray would be divorced. I know that he gave them an ear bashing, asking why they would bless cattle in a yard, but not our marriage. He asked if we had children, would the Catholic Church baptise them, and the priests agreed that they probably would. After visits to three priests who all refused to bless our marriage, I was thinking that some of my actor friends could put on the garb, throw a bit of holy water over us and no one would know the difference. It was three days before Christmas and we needed to send out invitations. Someone suggested that we ask a local Church of Ireland Reverend just outside of Kilkenny. We called down to meet him and he agreed to perform a blessing on us in the hotel.

Although it's only ten years ago, most Irish weddings were quite traditional then. I was a bit nervous telling my parents about 'the plan' for their only daughters wedding. Husband-to-be decided that he would tell my Dad. They went down the farm yard. I was chopping carrots with my Mam. A lot of carrots. An hour later, my Dad came bursting into the kitchen, laughing his head off. Turns out that the Reverend had lived in my aunt and uncles house, just down the road from my parents many years previously. Who would have thought ?

Friday 13th February 2004 : Yes, I got married on Friday 13th. My proud dad walked me down an aisle in a room in the hotel and we had a blessing in front of family and friends.

It was simple and lovely.

Without going into detail, I won't say that the earth moved on my wedding night. I did have a great nights sleep though. With all that was going on, I was just looking forward to a romantic night the following night – It was Valentine's after all. The hotel staff, rather sheepishly, told us that there was a mix up with the hotel booking and that there was no rooms available for Ray's children and their friends. As it was Valentines night, there was little chance of any cancellations. We had two options. 1. Look for a B&B for four teenagers or 2. All of us move into a family room. We went for option no 2. Suffice to say, the earth didn't move that night either.

It's now Sunday 15th February. I have been married since Thursday 12th February. My friend Susan and her beau offered to take Ray's crew to the train. We didn't think twice. I don't even know if we even said goodbye. All I remember was the New Husband and I taking off at high speed heading off into the sunset towards Limerick .....

Wedding Daze Part I

I can't say that the build up to my wedding ten years ago was romantic ... at all ... After endless phone calls to a solicitor about probate and how to finalise the paperwork on our house sale, we eventually moved into Poppy Cottage, in mid January 2004. 

As charming as it was, the heating system was dodgy and some of the windows were rotten. We had ripped out an old Stanley stove and temporarily replaced it with a wood burning chimera. Despite our toasty stove, the night that we moved in was absolutely freezing. Bitter. Artic. I remembered huddling in bed, wondering had we made a terrible mistake. 

On top of that , my husband-to-be's DIY divorce was slow and only came through just weeks before our wedding(s) were due to take place in February - a civil marriage, with a family blessing the following day.

The week after the divorce went through, he was back in court asking the same judge to waiver the standard three month notice to marry. I was worried that it wouldn't get sorted out on time, but felt that we couldn't change the date of our wedding (again), as family had already booked flights (for the second time).

Thankfully, Mr Nice Judge Man signed on the dotted line and we were free to marry – the spinster and the divorcee.

Wedding Day, no 1, February 12th 2004 : Ten years ago, there was very little option for a divorcee to marry anywhere except a Registry Office.The Registry Office in Naas was clean and presentable, but lacking in ambience- in a small retail unit in Monread, with walls painted a lovely shade of HSE washable peach. None of this bothered me too much, as we had put all of our energies on the family blessing the following day. I thought that the civil marriage was just a matter of turning up and signing on the dotted line.

I woke up in my parents house in Co Meath. I put on my beautiful Karen Millen dusty pink number, did my hair and make up, said goodbye to my Dad, saying I would see him at the aisle the following day. I headed off in my Toyota Yaris, with my Mam. We stopped in a hotel in Kill and I went into the loo to change out of my runners into my heels and to fix my face. We picked up flowers in the florist conveniently located beside the Registry Office and headed in.

We were married by a lovely lady, Registrar, Bernie Jacob. Bernie is Deirdre Jacob's mother. Deirdre disappeared without trace, from Newbridge in 1998, aged 18. My Mam mentioned to Bernie that she lived near Kingscourt. At the time of Deirdre's disappearance, there was searches around Kingscourt as she had friends there. I couldn't help but think of Deirdre and all of the family occasions she and her family missed out on. I imagined her pretty face and her wedding day. There was only a handful of people at the ceremony - my Mam, Ray's parents, our two witnesses, Ray's daughter and her friend. There was something powerful and intense about its simplicity, without the usual frills. Many tears were shed that day and I know that more than one of them was shed for Deirdre.

We went for a lovely meal in Kilkea Castle. Husband-to-be was now New Husband. He had one pint with his meal as he was driving to Maynooth to collect his son from the train station later that evening. Meal over, son and friend-who-happened-to -be-a-girl collected and it was getting near bed time. As well as being a bit chilly, Poppy Cottage was small and we hadn't yet sorted the furniture since we had moved in. Not being very good at maths, we couldn't figure out who would sleep where. Our wedding witnesses, (my then boss Breda, who was the match maker for myself and Ray and her hubby Paul) suggested that New Husband, his son and friend-who-happened-to be-a-girl could stay in their house. It seemed like a good plan. Beds were of a premium in Poppy Cottage, so I hopped in beside my Mam, while Ray's daughter and friend slept in the spare room. While I was in bed early, with my Mam, to get my beauty sleep for my 'Big Day part II the following day, New Husband went to the pub with the wedding entourage. Can you imagine the skitting in the pub 'Eh, Ray, did you not get married today ?' 'I did , yeah'. 'Oh right, congrats ... Where is the missus ?' 'She is at home in bed with her mother' ....

Stay calm and start filming

I'm only writing this to see if I can still can write.  It's only been month or so, but I feel like I've fallen off the wagon.  Unlike other blog posts that I have written, I don't have an outline in my head of what I'm about to write, so bear with me.   I have to get back in the saddle. For the last month or so, my head has been up my bum. All my efforts to re immerse myself in my own personal creativity has gone out the window. Having only recently gained the confidence to write start writing a blog, all ideas dried up. Meawhile, I hadn't the time or the headspace to do any drawing either. I had worked hard to build up my drawing technique. Like physical exercise, drawing requires regular attention.

Speaking of exercise, at least I walked my doggy ... a bit. Myself and my mutt have a regular 6.45am date. Just me and him, pounding the tarmaradam. But lately, I've had early starts and haven't always honoured out dates. I've been feelling guilty about it. At times I've hardly made eye contact with him.

Speaking of guilt, the chizzlers. Oh lordy. Even when I've been there, I haven't really been there, distracted by all that has been going on. I've looked in at them while they sleep as I head out the door to work before they wake and kiss them goodnight in their beds.

The reason for this ? I've been producing a feature film, via my role as Arts Officer in KCC In the film world, I'm a green horn and so small I'm not even small fry. It's just one project of many that I am working on.  

But it's a big deal to me. And to the people working on it. I've been working on this for over 18 months. It started out as a relatively small project, with a e6k budget. Over 50 people came to a think tank of sorts in Winter 2012 and were invited to submit scripts based on a drama set in the equine industry. It was to be an online drama, written by local writers and performed by local actors, shot be local crew. I met one of the Executive Producers, Tim Palmer last summer and he said to do it well, we needed to increase our budget ten fold. I didn't sleep for two nights worrying about it. I was worried because I felt that a lot of expectation had built up around this and I needed to make it work. In a rare 'eureka' moment, I realised that I could source the additional funding from a Per Cent for Art scheme for commissioning original artwork. 

 Ferdia Mac Anna came on board as Director last summer and led the writing team to refine a script. Auditions ran last autumn.  Again, doubt set in. Who would turn up ? Would we find the right people ? In the end, over 70 people turned up. The standard was extremely high (although there was a few memorable-for-the-wrong-reasons audition renditions of Jack Nicholson's 'you can't handle the truth' speech on A Few Good Men'). Unless you ARE Jack Nicholson, don't go there. It was such a buzz when we found our cast, breathing life into our characters. It was running like a machine. Locations sourced and secured. Before we knew it, it was May. 

Stressed and all as I was about the filming, having a family wedding in the mix didn't help. Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled and excited about my brothers wedding in Kerry on the May Bank Holiday weekend.

But let's face it, weddings are stressful. Ideally I would have had a few days off work to get myself together for it, but I was too busy with the film. I had hoped to have my bags packed before my parents arrived from Meath on Thursday evening. Instead, I had my head over a sink trying to dye my hair when they pulled into the drive way, as I didn't have time to go to the hairdressers.

We left for Kerry the following day, three hours later than planned, but still in good time. My wee man, bursting with excitement, and known for his interrogation techniques asked questions the whole way there. The same questions, over and over AND OVER. My dad, not the most patient of men started to get cross with Leon. Leon thought it was a joke and asked even more questions.

After tea with the in-laws-to-be, I dropped by parents to their hotel. As I was leaving, someone ran out and said that my mothers head piece was missing. Badly parked with kids swinging out of the car, I just wanted to cry. I did a little. We found the head piece. I headed off.

I stayed in the Gleneagle Hotel with the children that night, determined to have a good nights sleep. I drank a large glass of wine and hit the hay. At 3.30am, a gang of boy racers attending the Rally of the Lakes started a party in a bedroom across the hall from me. A girl who split up with her fella had a tearful conversation in the corridor with another fella who was trying to snog her. I was going to go out and offer her advice, but I just pleaded with them to stay quiet. At 5am, they all went to bed.  I was thinking of sending the kids in to jump on their beds when they got up at 6.30.

Denise and Robert's wedding in Dingle was just fabulous. Mighty craic with great hospitality. It deserved a blog post all of it's own, but that's for another day. Suffice to say for now, that Iron Maiden's 'Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter' was played after the traditional first dance, with my brother and his new father-in-law having a sword fight.  It was that kinda wedding. 

My parents travelled back to Kildare with us on Monday, with my dad anxious to get back to the farm in Meath.  I could have cried when he said that they would stay for another night. Much and all as I love my parents, I'm thinking, 'NNNNOOOOOOO, GO HOME !! I start filming on FRIDAY !!!! Of course, I said nothing.  My dad asked me the following morning if I had 'much on' that week.

The morning that filming started, I had my car parked with the oddest assortment of props. I baked canapes for a party scene and raided flowers out of my garden. I cried. I could feel the stress creeping up my chest.  It was all too much. And then filming started. SSHHHHHH !! 

And calm. 

We got into our rhytmn.  Scenes came to life. Tenderness. Violence. The comradary. The fun. The generosity. Euphoria. And then it was over.

And now I'm on come down. The strangest feeling of them all. It started with sleeplessness, then exhaustion.  I have barely been able to taste food, or feel hungry. And now I'm over analysing. Self doubt is creeping in.  Expectation and anticipation.  The fear, oh the fear.

A launch to organise. What next ? Who knows ? I've got the bug now, so more of the same please

Going Public

The way things happened, I didn't have a choice about going public with my MS diagnosis. Word spread pretty quickly amongst my rather large, but tight knit family that I had been admitted to the Neurology Ward in Beaumont Hospital in 2011. My main complaint at the time was blurred eyesight (optic neuritis, if you want to be technical about it).  This, and other tests suggested that I had MS. A number of close friends also knew what was going on. As a result, I was showered with acts of kindness from my nearest and dearest, which still warms me three years later. Family knowing your business is one thing, but the wider world finding out is another. 

When her-who-is-never-sick, didn't show up for work on a Monday and was missing for five weeks, it would have raised suspicions that there was something amiss. I did intend telling my closest work colleagues on my return to work. In the meantime, however, a well meaning colleague had mentioned my likely prognosis to a number of people.  While I would have preferred to choose my own moment to tell, or not to tell colleagues, I didn't really mind. In fact, I was touched by their generosity, including a collection amongst work colleagues to pay for extra hours of childcare to allow me to rest (My children, twins, were then 3 years old).

In the intervening years, my children have become a right pair of comedians. I started sharing stories about their antics and questions on Facebook.  People started to tell me that they looked forward to my Facebook posts. It was probably inevitable that I would write about MS at some stage. I wrote a reflective piece at Christmas time in the year of my diagnosis and had the odd moan when I was feeling particularly low.  The day that I heard that Marie Fleming had died, I was terribly upset and wrote a piece in response to it on my Facebook page. 

Soon after, a journalist in The Irish Examiner asked my to write about my initial diagnosis.  I was chuffed to be asked – to think that someone would have the confidence in me to write for a national newspaper.  But when I was writing the piece and read it aloud to my husband, I couldn't stop the tears. I knew I would be very publicly exposing some of my vulnerabilities.  Still, I felt that if someone took comfort from my story, it was worth telling.  I had an overwhelming response to the article, with strangers contacting my through social media, or tracking me down at work. 

http://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/features/learning-to-live-with-ms-one-step-at-a-time-256689.html

A local newspaper, The Kildare Nationalist reprinted the article a few weeks later. That was more difficult for me, as I knew that more people I knew woud read it.  Funny thing was, that very few people mentioned it to me.  There were times when I met people and I-knew-they-knew, but didn't say anything, but that's fine too.

I know there are people that are horrified that I have shared my experiences about having MS on social media. But I would argue that I didn't have a choice.  You see, my personality type made me do it.  Let me explain - I did a Myers Briggs personality type indicator test as a team building exercise at work a few years ago.  Out of a possible 16 possible personality combinations, the test concluded that I am an ENFP (Extraverted/Intuitive/Feeling/Perceiving).  Basically, I'm a blabber mouth, who likes telling stories and engaging with other people. I also get bored easily (it is unlikely therefore that I will ever progress beyond blogging to writing novels). 

The learning from that personality test was to appreciate other people's personality types.  I am very aware of other people's boundaries and comfort zones.  My openness about my MS diagnosis does make some people uncomfortable.  Having said that, if what I write makes people uncomfortable, I would respectfully suggest that they don't read it.  

When I got my MS diagnosis, taking care of my general wellbeing was emphasised.  I've done all sorts of things, examining stress levels, diet, exercise, rest to improve my wellbeing.  One thing that has really helped is writing.  In my work life, I write all sorts of reports, funding applications, policy documents.  Ironically though, I always enjoyed writing for work, but it didn't occur to me to write 'for me' until very recently. I guess that anyone who writes a blog does so to get some sort of reaction from the reader.  I confess, I do get a buzz from comments and feedback from people.  It makes me feel better.  I also like the idea of documenting my stories for my children.  I do not want to be defined by medical condition, so I hope to write about other things too. 

MS diagnosis has given me a new sense of living in the moment.  Occasionally I do worry about my long term health prospects, but my writing has helped me focus in the now.  I hope that my writings, in some way, make it easier for people to talk about that which cannot be spoken.

This post was first published on Multiple Sclerosis Ireland blog site 'MS and Me' in April 2014

http://ms-society.ie/ms-and-me/blogs/1564